Pestis
by Burked
Summary: G/S. With Grissom’s help, Sara confronts an invisible enemy.


**Title:   **            Pestis

**Author:**           Burked

**Rating:            **PG-13 for disturbing content and language

**Summary:**       With Grissom's help, Sara confronts an invisible enemy.

**A/N:                **The only biohazards I have worked with have been confined to a laboratory environment.  I based most of my supposition on that experience.  If I have the field procedures all hosed up, just laugh at my ignorance and concentrate on the real story.  : )   MANY THANKS to Mossley, the intrepid beta, and one of my very favorite authors.

"What do we have?" Sara Sidle asked Officer Les Hobbs as she sidestepped him at the door, her eyes already beginning to scan the room.

"Looks like the victim's been beaten to death," he said, looking slightly green around the fringes.  

"That bad, huh?" she said, concerned he would lose it and contaminate her crime scene.

"Yeah, she's starting to rot, and it stinks," he added, starting to heave.

"Outside!" she shouted, pushing him through the door just in time for him to lurch over and retch into the sand that doubled as a lawn.  She rested a hand on his back and bent over to look at his face.  "Maybe you better sit down out here," she suggested.  "You can still guard the scene from here," she reasoned.

"I hope I didn't mess up any evidence," he moaned, looking around in the dirt for footprints, tire tracks or anything else that would qualify.  "Brass will have my butt, if I did.  You're not going to tell anyone I got sick, are you?" he pleaded.

"Not if nothing got contaminated," she assured him. "No reason to.  But I have to file a supplemental report if anything is compromised.  You know that, right?"

"Yeah.  I understand," Hobbs moaned, holding his stomach and trying to gulp in fresh air.

"You sit here.  I'll yell if I need you," she said, patting his shoulder and smiling sympathetically.  She had to admit that she never really got accustomed to the smell of decomposing flesh, and she was exposed to it several times a month.  It was not shameful for a young officer to be affected who had probably only seen a decomp a few times in his career, at most.

Sara walked into the living room, moving slowly, shining her flashlight along every surface, even though the overhead light was on.  It was almost impossible to tell if anything out of place due to the piles of papers and clutter that seemed to sprout from every horizontal plane.

"Pack rat," she mused, taking a few locator shots to document the state of the room, then passing into the kitchen.  If she thought the living area was cluttered, the kitchen qualified as filthy.  The garbage can overflowed onto the floor.  Uneaten food and soiled dishes were stacked like toy blocks on the counters, leaving little exposed surface.  What flat area that could be seen was grimy.  The flies were having a field day, with seemingly endless amounts of garbage for them to eat and lay eggs on.  The walls were dotted with fly specks.

The sinks were so full of pots, pans and utensils that they appeared to be mountains in the countertop, instead of valleys.  Suppressing her own momentary gagging reflex, Sara followed the countertop around the room to the dining table, or at least she assumed it to be the table.  It didn't look significantly different from any other surface in the kitchen.  

She wondered if the person living here just bought new dishes instead of ever washing the used plates.  The woman could have at least thrown the soiled ones away, she reasoned.  Sara snorted when her flashlight returned back to the garbage can.  'What a redundant, useless item for this kitchen,' she thought.  

She flipped the light onto the floor and immediately assured herself that the "3-second rule" would not apply in this kitchen.  If anything was dropped on this floor, it should be burned, not eaten – even if it laid there less than three seconds.

"How and why does any human being live like this?" she asked, shaking her head.  Though she certainly didn't have the germ-phobias some of her friends did, she tucked her flashlight back in its holster and grabbed a second pair of gloves.  

Universal precautions stipulated they should be double-gloved at all times, but it was a rare CSI in Las Vegas who followed universal precautions outside of the lab.  They should wear a mask, eye protection, two sets of gloves, shoe covers and overalls at every crime scene potentially containing a biohazard, which is almost any scene that involves a human or an animal.

Usually they didn't bother, justifying their omission by citing the small odds of needing them, the cost, and the oppressive heat.  Whenever they entered a scene with large quantities of still-liquified body fluids, they might suit up, especially if Grissom were around.  Otherwise, they rarely bothered.  They considered biohazards an acceptable risk, like any other risk associated with law enforcement.

Sara considered donning her suit, for no other reason than to keep the filth off of her clothes and skin, but it was hot and she decided to move onto the actual crime scene first, to evaluate from there.  Perhaps it wouldn't be as bad.  She moved through the hall, cutting a path along the floor with her flashlight, not finding anything that didn't look like it had been there for years.

She flicked her light to the right to peek into the first door, leading into a small bedroom that was obviously being used as a storeroom.  "Damn!  This person didn't throw away _anything_!" she snorted to herself.  

As she progressed, the stench became palpable.  She stopped briefly, closed her eyes and grinned madly to suppress the gag reflex.  She forced herself to breathe through her clenched teeth.  She would never let anyone else know, but she had been tempted on more than one occasion to buy a set of swimmers' nose clamps at the sporting goods store, just for occasions such as these.  She had a respirator that cut down the smell considerably, but as with the other precautions, it was unwieldy, uncomfortable, and hot.

Instead, she pulled a plastic evidence bag out of her kit and shoved it loosely in her back pocket – immediately accessible if she became uncontrollably nauseated.

She unsteadily began to move again, this time illuminating a room on the left, a cramped bathroom.  Looking briefly at the tub, she couldn't fathom how anyone could think that they would be cleaner for the experience.  'Freaking pig,' she mumbled under her breath, beginning to transfer her disgust for the house onto the owner thereof.  

Normally she had a natural affinity for the victim, since she considered the victim to be her employer and her reason for doing this work.  No matter what, she strove to suspend any judgments or preconceptions not supplied directly by the evidence.  But there were the few exceptions, like this victim, where she had to fight to keep an open mind.

She pushed her way through the thickening odor, feeling it seek out and cling to her skin and hair.  She knew she would be able to smell this for days, as the scent would coat the hair in her nostrils and line the inside of her sinus and nasal cavities.  She considered the respirator again, but accepted that it was too late, the olfactory damage done.

The victim was in bed, the stained, threadbare sheets pulled up to her chin.  Sara was struck with how bloated her lower face was, especially around her jaw line.  Purple bruises showed angrily on her cheeks.  A thin stream of blood had trickled out of the lower corner of her mouth and nostril, and dried.  Maggots were beginning to hatch, and Sara thanked every diety she could recall that the victim hadn't been here longer, swatting away the flies that buzzed near her ears.

There was something missing – something wrong with the scene, but Sara couldn't quite put her finger on what it was.  She was content to let her subconscious work on the problem while she examined the victim.

Sara photographed the room and the victim in bed, then moved closer to photograph her face.  Once the bruises were documented and the top of the bed sheets was examined, she slowly pulled back the sheet, folding it onto itself to preserve any trace she missed, to expose more of the elderly woman's body.

She laid down her ruler and photographed each exposed bruise, noting in her mind that there was substantial swelling under many of them.  When her lower legs were finally uncovered, Sara grabbed her magnifying glass and flashlight, examining the bruises more closely.  Several had skin breaches in them, as though the victim had some form of sharp-force trauma.

She set down the magnifying glass and gingerly palpated around the wounds, expecting a hardened hematoma beneath.  Instead, she was instantly horrified to see a release of putrefaction.

The missing piece hit Sara's consciousness immediately.  If the woman were beaten this badly, there should be blood spatter somewhere in the house.  She was covered in bloody bruises, but there was no blood on the bed, on the walls, on the floor.

Sara stumbled back suddenly, losing her footing and falling on her derriere on the floor, still pushing back from the body with her feet, her arms walking behind her, like a crab scuttling along a slick floor.  From her new vantage point, she could see under the bed, stopping to turn her light there to verify that there was indeed a dead cat there.   

"Shit!  Shit!  Shit!" she screamed, jumping up and running through the hall to the front door, flinging it open.   "Fuck!  God damn!  Of all the fucking luck!  Shit, shit, shit!" she cursed, falling to her knees a few feet from Officer Hobbs, her legs shaking so violently that she could not stand.

A wave of chills racked her body, and she began to retch violent, unstoppably.  She stripped off her gloves and wiped her mouth, gasping for air.

"I don't feel so bad now," Officer Hobbs said, jokingly.

"You may feel _very bad later," she said cryptically.  "We have to go back into the house," she said, hoisting herself up on unsteady legs._

"What?  Why?" he stammered.

"Get inside the fucking house, now," she said vehemently.  "Lock the door," she commanded, once they were inside.

The officer put his hand on his service weapon and began scanning the room.  "Is there someone in here?" he asked, suddenly all-business.

"Just you, me, a dead cat and Typhoid Mary in there," Sara said, pulling out her cell phone.  "Shit, shit, shit," she kept repeating with each button she pushed.

"Grissom," the voice answered.

"It's Sara," she huffed out breathlessly.  "My 419.   I'm ... we're ... in _big_ trouble, Grissom," she managed to get out, though she felt like her lungs were unable to absorb oxygen.

"What is it, Sara?" he demanded with a rising sense of dread.

"Uh, I don't know.  It's bad.  Really, really bad.  Shit.  Oh, shit," she began rambling, terror bringing a cry to her voice.

"Sara, calm down.  I'll be there in a few minutes," he said, leaving Catherine wide-eyed at their own scene, as he ran towards the Tahoe.

"No.  Don't come here.  There's no blood spatter.  I think she's sick.  You can't come here.  Call somebody else.  CDC or somebody with biohazard suits.  It's ..." she was interrupted by the wave of nausea that took control over her, just managing to pull out the bag in time.  

"Damn it, Sara!  Are you all right?" Grissom screamed into the phone, driving with one hand, mentally mapping the most direct route to her scene out on the edge of town.

"Uh, no ... I mean, yeah ... I don't know.  What the fuck is wrong with her?  Oh God!  Oh God!" she said, hyperventilating, turning to find Hobbs, who was sitting with his back against the wall, head in his hands.  His shoulders were shaking.  He might be crying, and if so she couldn't blame him.

"Sara, you've got to calm down or you will hyperventilate and pass out.  We need you conscious to help us deal with this, okay?" Grissom tried to sound confident and authoritative, though he felt that his head was spinning.

Not getting a reply, he changed tactics, "I'm almost there, honey.  Hold on just another few minutes," he said, much less commandingly.  "Can you do that for me?"

"Uh huh, yeah.  What do we do?  I don't remember what I'm supposed to do!" she shouted in her confusion.

"Just stay as far away from the suspected source as possible, but stay in the house.  Don't let anyone in.  Don't let anyone out.  How many of you are in there?" he asked.

"Just two of us.  There's a young policeman here with me.  An Officer Hobbs," she said, trying to smile when he responded to his name.

"Okay.  Have the officer radio dispatch to warn the Coroner's office about the biohazard contamination.  Tell them to send someone as soon as possible.  They'll decide whether to call the CDC.  Request backup to quarantine the area," Grissom instructed.

Sara passed along the message to Hobbs, who seemed to temporarily find his focus now that he had a specific set of tasks to accomplish.

"Sara, honey, tell me what you saw that scared you," Grissom said, trying to sound soothing, but finding it difficult to keep the alarm out of his own voice.

"He ... Hobbs ... thought she had been beaten.  At first I did, too.  She has raised bruises on her.  Bleeding from the nose and mouth.  But no blood spatter anywhere.  Then I saw eroded tissue in some of the bruises.  Pus.  Swollen lymph glands.  It looks like some sort of hemorrhagic fever.  Oh, and a dead cat under the bed.  I didn't get a good look at it.  This house is a fucking pigsty.  You should pour gasoline around it and set it on fire," she suggested.

"Let's get you and Officer Hobbs out first," Grissom teased.

"Maybe you shouldn't," she said glumly.  "It needs a fuel-air bomb, like in the movie 'Outbreak'."

"Sara, we're going to get the two of you out in just a little while.  We'll decontaminate you and have you admitted to the hospital.  They can begin prophylaxis until the exact nature of the problem is identified," he told her, trying to forestall the inevitable feeling of being trapped in the house will millions of killers stalking them.

"Make sure Officer Hobbs understands the situation, Sara," Grissom offered solemnly.  "He could panic."

"Shit!  I'm 32, and I can tell you I'm damn sure panicking!" she yelped into the phone.

"You're young, too," Grissom said softly.  "Do you trust me?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered, unsure why he would ask.

"Okay, I'm right outside the door.  I'm knocking on it.  Can you hear it?" he asked.

"Yes.  I can hear you talking through the door," she said, half into the phone and half towards the door.

"I'm going to suit up, then I'll be right in to stay with you," Grissom said calmly.  "Will you makes sure Officer Hobbs stays calm?  I'll be right in," he repeated, heading to the back of the Tahoe to retrieve his biohazard bag.

Grissom put the phone down reluctantly to put on the first set of latex gloves, cursing when he pulled a tear in it.  He stopped and took a deep breath, willing himself to calm down.  He wasn't going to be able to help anyone if he didn't remain in complete control over his own emotions.

He picked up the phone to assure Sara that he'd be there in a moment, then pulled on his gloves and rubberized jumpsuit.  He quickly taped the ankles and wrists, then pulled on a heavier set of latex gloves, taping them down as well.  He put the shoe covers on, taping them in place.

He picked up the hood and his phone, walking briskly to the door.  "Sara?  Are you there?"

"Yes," she answered, sounding calmer.

"I'm at the door.  You need to unlock it for me.  I won't be able to talk on the cell phone very easily once I put on my hood, so I'm hanging up."  He listened for the deadbolt retracting.  Satisfied, he closed the cell phone and set it on the ground by the door.  He took a deep breath and pulled the hood on, tucking the inner layer in and allowing the outer layer to cover the outside.  

Grissom cursed not having a more elaborate breathing apparatus.  He had his choice of a respirator, which would make it useless to talk, or a small canister of compressed air.  He chose the air.  

Grissom closed his eyes and gathered himself.  He didn't know exactly what else was in there, but he did know that Sara and a scared young cop were waiting on him to do something ... anything ... to make this all go away.  He turned the knob and slowly opened the door.

He scanned the room quickly and saw them standing by the wall to his left, about seven feet from the door.  The cop was still sitting on the floor, slowly rocking himself back and forth, apparently in a fugue state as far as Grissom could tell.  Sara stood nervously next to him, hugging her chest and allowing her head to methodically fall back into the wall, making a dull thud every second or so.  

Repetitive motion is typical comforting behavior for people suffering an emotional shock, Grissom knew, and he moved towards them slowly.  His voice came out muffled and difficult to hear, "Sara?  Are you okay?" knowing it was quite possibly the most ridiculous question he could possibly ask at this moment.

She looked up into the clear plastic window of his hood and searched out his eyes in the shadows, seeking the strength she hoped would be there.  She was afraid to approach him, despite his precautions, so she gamely waved a hand and tried to smile, but her lips twitched uncontrollably.

"I'm ... so ... scared," the officer forced out, looking up at Grissom with wild eyes.  Grissom motioned to Sara to help with the young man.  Both knelt in front of him, trying to keep him calm with voice and touch.

"We're here with you.  I promise help is on the way," Grissom said authoritatively, knowing that they needed that pretense from him now.  

Standing back up, Grissom and Sara were in much closer proximity and he took the opportunity to pull her into a hug, neither of them satisfied with the lack of sensation with the heavy layer of latex-covered canvas in between them.  He put double-gloved hands on either side of her face, holding it up and still so that he could look into her eyes.  He imagined that the look he was seeing was the same look that many a murderer sees during the final moments before death – bottomless terror and nascent resignation.

"Where's the victim?" Grissom asked gently.  

Sara pointed down the hall and told him, "Second door on the right.  Follow the smell, you can't miss her," she joked lamely.

Grissom smiled at her attempt at levity and gave her arms a squeeze before going to face whatever pestilence had befallen this house.  Once in the bedroom, he could reconstruct what Sara had initially seen and what she had been doing.  The camera was lying on the floor a few feet back from the bed.  He leaned over and confirmed the presence of the cat under the bed.  He snapped a quick picture and dragged the beast out of its makeshift lair.

Grissom could see that the cat had most likely succumbed to the same illness that had tortured the victim.  Sara was right; it looked like some form of hemorrhagic fever.  It could be bacterial, in which case Sara and Hobbs had a decent chance of survival.  But it could just as easily be viral, and their chances much slimmer.  Fortunately, they were both young, strong and in good health, he reassured himself.

Grissom closed the door to the bedroom, more for psychological comfort than for disease control.  The death of the cat signified to him that either the cat was possibly the vector, or fleas on the cat.  The house was filthy and no doubt rat-infested.  They would have fleas as well.

Grissom moved as quickly as he could in the bulky suit, returning to the two in the living room.  His peripheral vision caught it before he consciously realized what he had noticed.  "Sara, were you gloved when you touched her?" he asked, concern mounting.

"Yes.  I was double-gloved, as a matter of fact," she answered hopefully.

"That could be very important.  Where are the gloves?" he asked, looking around the room.

"Shit!  I left them outside!" she shouted, slapping her forehead, moving towards the door.

"I'll get them," Grissom offered.  "Is there anything else out there that's possibly contaminated?"

"Well, we both sat on the porch," Sara said, looking over at Hobbs, apologizing in advance.  "Hobbs threw up in the dirt.  Sorry, bud," she said to the cop. "Would that have contaminant in it already?"

"I doubt it, but the porch could.  We'll have them spray it down when they get here," Grissom said, opening the door and seeing the gloves not four feet away.  He retrieved them and re-locked the door.

"Can we all agree that this scene is secure?" Grissom asked, strangely out of context.

"Uh, sure," Sara answered, puzzlement on her face.

"Good," Grissom answered, walking over to the still dazed policeman, removing his service weapon.  Grissom walked over the Sara and held out his hand.  "May I have your weapon, please?" he asked.

"Why?" Sara questioned, reaching back to take it from her holster.

"Just a precaution.  Sometimes people panic," he said, shrugging.

"You honestly think we'd shoot you to get out?" she asked incredulously.

"No, I don't _expect_ you to shoot me, but fear can do strange things to perfectly rational people, Sara.  I'm sure you wouldn't want anything to happen," he said gently.  "I know _I_ don't."  He unloaded the pistols and handed them back.

"Do whatever you think's best," she conceded.  "I already can't think straight, I'm so fucking scared," she told him honestly.

"Sara Sidle is scared?" he teased.  "Call CNN!"

She laughed and shook her head.  "Hey, if I could duke it out or shoot the little fuckers, I wouldn't be this scared.  But, it's like there's zillions of little invisible terminators, all wandering around looking for someone to jump on.  Aren't we the lucky ones!" she said, with gallows humor.

Grissom reached out to squeeze her arm.

"And it just figures that the day you'd break down and touch me – not once, but several times – you'd be covered head to toe in latex!" she laughed.

"Don't tell Greg.  He'd get a completely different idea from that statement," he suggested.

"Oh yeah!  I forgot about that," she said, her voice trailing off as the association passed from Greg to someone Grissom knew much better than she did.

"Damn, Sara!  I'm sorry!  It was just a joke.  I didn't think," Grissom sputtered.

She shrugged gamely and said, "Actually, it _would_ have been funny."

Sara's cell phone rang, startling them, but thankfully breaking the uncomfortable silence that had fallen between them.

"Sidle."

"Hey, girl," Catherine said.  "What's up?  Grissom blew out of here like he was on crack."

"Just my irresistible charm," Sara laughed.  She looked up and mouthed 'Catherine' for Grissom, who nodded.

"I don't know what you said to get him to move so fast, but you've got to share it, honey!  Maybe patent it.  There are a lot of women out there who would pay good money to know how to attract a man like that," she joked.

"Hmmm.  I'll give it some thought.  But, I don't know.  Then everyone would be able to do it.  Nah, I think I'll keep it my own personal secret," she said.

"Bitch!" Catherine laughed.  

"Okay, if you're going to talk sweet to me, then I'll share.  I told Grissom that there was some sort of biohazardous contamination here, and I walked right into it, like a first-year cadet."

"Oh, that's a good one," Catherine agreed, concern starting to seep into her voice.

"Yeah, worked like a charm!" Sara said brightly, forcing herself to concentrate on the banter instead of the situation.

"I suspected that you'd do anything to get him alone, but damn girl, you are one committed woman," Catherine said.

"Unfortunately, we're not quite alone.  We've got a cop here, too.  So I guess it can't get too wild and kinky."

Grissom was a little uncomfortable at the direction the conversation was going, especially knowing that Catherine was driving it, but if it kept Sara occupied, then it was worth any embarrassment he might temporarily feel.

"Can I talk to Grissom?" Catherine asked.

"Nope," Sara answered abruptly.

"And why not, pray tell?"

"He's all taped up," Sara quipped, giggling.

"Sounds like you've got everything well in hand," Catherine said, chuckling.

"Not yet, but I'm working on it!" she answered.  "And he's came in covered in latex, but I think he misunderstood.  This is the thick kind, with canvas backing.  Can't feel much through this stuff."

"Scientists!" Catherine spat out.  "They can be so damned literal!"

"Tell me!" Sara agreed.  "So, what are you up to?"

"Just processing this crime scene Grissom bailed on, pretending I know what I'm doing," Catherine answered.

"You're so good at that!" Sara said cryptically.

"Processing scenes?  Or pretending I know what I'm doing?" Catherine laughed.

"I plead the Fifth," Sara answered.

"I always knew you were smart," Catherine said.  "Listen, kiddo, is there anything I can do?"

"No, I don't think so.  We're waiting on the coroner, more cops, and maybe the CDC.  It should be a zoo within the hour," Sara said.

"You hang in there.  Call me if you need to talk to someone who has the capacity for emotional response," she said.  "I'm serious.  I don't care if it's every five minutes, okay?"

"Sure, thanks, Cath," Sara said appreciatively.

"You know, if you could get Grissom away from the cop, you could use this alone time to your advantage," Catherine whispered conspiratorially.

"What do you mean?" Sara asked, surreptitiously moving slowly away from Grissom.

"He's going to be vulnerable right now."

"Why would _he be?" Sara asked, unbelieving._

"Trust me, he will be.  And he will feel sorry for you, because of your situation.  He would probably agree to just about anything, if he thought it would make you happy, give you hope, keep you calm, whatever."

"Catherine," she whispered, knowing there was no way Grissom could hear in his hood, especially with her back turned and a good ten feet of separation between them.  "That's blatant manipulation," she hissed.

"And?" Catherine asked.

"And ... it wouldn't be right," Sara whispered.

"Look, you want him, he wants you.  He's just clueless, that's all.  This will give him an opportunity to do what he already wants to do, but be able to convince himself that it wasn't his idea.  He needs the out, just in case it doesn't work between you.  But you know that's not gonna happen, if he ever gives in," Catherine explained.

"You could have told me this a long time ago!" Sara said in a more normal voice.

"And miss watching the two of you behaving like bumper cars?  Come together, bounce apart.  Head straight for each other, bump, then go careening off to the side.  It's been fun, but it's starting to get old," Catherine laughed.

"I appreciate the advice, since you know him best, but this hardly seems like the time or the place," she demurred.

"It is exactly the right time and place.  You probably won't have to initiate.  Just use his own words to undo him," she compromised.

"We'll see," Sara said.  "I better go.  He's starting to get suspicious.  It's not like you and I usually talk this long."

"Call me!" Catherine said, hanging up.  She immediately called dispatch to get Sara's location.  Then she dialed Warrick, telling him to round up Nick, and meet her at the house at the edge of town.

"Catherine can be funny ... and nice ... when she wants to be," Sara said to Grissom when he looked at her questioningly.

"When she wants to be," he agreed.  "She can also be just the opposite, when she wants to be."

"How well I know that!" Sara nodded.  "I wonder if she'll ever really like me," Sara asked distantly.

"She respects you and she admires you.  Is it really necessary for her to like you?" he asked.

"No.  Warrick feels the same way she does.  He doesn't really like me, either," she said, without the hurt Grissom might have expected.

Grissom nodded, feeling like he understood all too well the conflicting emotions she was feeling about her interactions with the team.  He had much the same relationships with several of them.

"Now, Nicky's a different story," she said.  "He likes me.  Not like romantically likes me," she added quickly.  "He accepts me and enjoys my company.  We find it easy to joke around with each other.  I don't know how I'd stand that place if he didn't lift my mood with his teasing," she said, looking off into vacant space.

Grissom considered her words, and wondered where he fit in her matrix.  He respected her.  He admired her.  But did she think he liked her?  

The tension of the situation seemed to impose a time limit that he had never felt before.  It had always seemed there would be plenty of time to say things or do things or straighten out things.  Maybe it would be too late soon.  Her words echoed in his mind.

"Where do I fit into your evaluation of your interactions with the staff?" he asked formally.

She huffed a quick laugh, raising her eyebrows in surprise that he would ask.  "You don't fit in at all.  You are outside the box," she said, leaving him bewildered.  "That's not _necessarily _a bad thing, Grissom!" she assured him.

He smiled at her evasion.  "Clever attempt at deflection," he congratulated her.

"I had a good mentor," she said coyly.

"So you are accusing me of evading questions?" he asked her, a grin playing across one side of his mouth.

"Don't even deny it, Gil Grissom.  You will burn in hell if you do!" she teased.

"Okay, ask me a direct question," he instructed her.  "I'll give you a direct answer."

"What kind of question?" she asked, her mind already sorting through thousands.

"Anything," he said definitively.  He was desperate to keep her mind off of her predicament, but he also knew that this tactic was dangerous in its own way.

"Does it have to be a 'yes' or 'no' question?" she asked.

"Nope," he replied.

"Doesn't this make you nervous?" she asked, amazed.

"Is that your question?" he laughed.

"No, it's an aside," she clarified.

They could hear sirens approaching the house, and Grissom wanted to keep her occupied.  Hobbs was still sitting quietly, his mind unable to make sense of the situation, so it effectively shut down.

"Do you know him?" Grissom asked, seeing her look over at the young man.

"A little.  I've met him a few times.  Heard him talking to the other cops.  He's only been married a couple of years, and his wife just had a baby a few months ago.  He must be going through hell right now, wondering if he'll ever get to see them again."

"You will both get through this, Sara," Grissom said forcefully, grabbing her by the arm.

"You're just trying to get out of answering a question directly," she said, forcing herself to disengage from the oppressive reality of her situation.

"Did it work?" he asked, chuckling.

"Not for long," she shot back.  "Damn!  I have so many questions that I'd like an honest answer to.  How to choose?  How to choose?" she said, rubbing her hands together.  

Grissom waited, patient on the exterior, but fighting chaos and panic internally.

"Okay.  Here's the question I want you to answer honestly.  What do I have to do to get you to go out with me?" she asked, satisfied that he had painted himself into a corner he couldn't easily escape.

Grissom laughed at her cleverness, and shook his head at his predicament.  "Let me think for a second," he admonished her, holding up a hand.

Sara crossed her arms and patted her foot on the floor.  After a moment, she began to hum the theme from Jeopardy!, bringing an look of bemused annoyance from Grissom.  

"Well, I have to admit it's a novel question – one that I've certainly never considered before."

"I'm waiting," she said impatiently.

"I don't know," he said, palms up in defeat.

"No fair!" she shouted.

"That's my honest answer.  No evasion.  No subterfuge.  I just honestly don't know the answer," he shrugged.  

"That one doesn't count then," she said angrily.  "It's got to be a question that you can answer."

"New rules?" he quipped.

"Are you chicken?" she taunted him.

"After the last question ... yes!" he answered.

Thinking a few moments, Sara began to feel uncomfortable with their game.  She didn't know why Grissom was playing it, though she suspected Catherine was right and he would do anything to divert her right now.  She decided to ask a more serious, more important question.

"Do you want me to just leave you alone?  To let it go and move on?" she said, exhaling deeply.

The smile evaporated off of Grissom's face, and she could see him take a deep breath, too.  He closed his eyes – whether in thought or in silent supplication, Sara couldn't tell.

"Never mind, Grissom.  That's an honest enough answer right there," she said, turning away to go check on Hobbs.  He caught her and turned her back around to face him squarely.

"Sara, it's not about what I want.  Or even what you want.  It's about what's right.  Honestly?  No, I don't want you to let it go and move on.  No, I don't want you to leave me alone.  But, no, I will _not_ go out with you.   It wouldn't be right," he answered tiredly, obviously having had this discussion with himself a hundred times.

"Doesn't matter now, Grissom," she said heavily.  "Look around you.  It's too late, anyway.  I'm not Rene Russo and you're not Dustin Hoffman.  You're not going to save the day at the eleventh hour.  You're not going to rip off your helmet and kiss me.  This isn't the movies and there will _not_ be a storybook ending," she said dejectedly, waving him away.  

She slid down the wall to sit next to Hobbs.  Looking over into his vacant eyes, she reached over and grabbed his hand to comfort them both and connect to him.  At this moment, they shared more of substance than she and Grissom ever had.

Grissom walked over to the window to watch them set up outside.  There was already a buzz of activity around a mobile laboratory, and several men were pitching a decontamination tent just outside the door.  Police were stringing up crime scene tape well out from the house, cordoning off the area.

She was right, and he knew it.  It was quite possibly too late.  He wondered how long those words would haunt him, spoken in her own voice.  Would it be the last memory of her voice to linger, long after she was gone?

For the first time since the night after the lab explosion, Grissom felt like crying.  He could count on one hand the number of times he had cried as an adult.  This would have been the third time directly tied to Sara.

Grissom looked over at her, sitting side-by-side with the young cop.  He could only assume that Hobbs's level of pain now must be indicative of how much joy he had felt with his new family.  Hobbs had slumped over against her, his head laid innocently on her shoulder.  She in turn had allowed her head to rest against his, still holding his hand in both of hers in her lap.  Both had their eyes closed, apparently choosing to escape to their memories instead of experience their current realities.

Grissom could see how easily they had formed a bond.  They were suffering together and so they chose to draw strength and comfort from each other.  Just that easily.  The shared fear connected them more strongly than years of shared conversation ever could have.

The insistent ringing of Sara's cell phone, sitting unanswered next to her, derailed Grissom's train of thought.  Grissom picked it up and answered the call as best he could through the hood.

"Grissom."

"Yeah, Grissom.  This is Greg.  I need a sample.  Are there any bubo or pustules?"

"Yes," Grissom answered.

"Good.  Well, not good for you guys, but good for getting a smear.  I'll be there in a minute."

Grissom walked over and unlocked the door, then stepped back.  In a few seconds the door swung open and Greg moved forward uncertainly, looking swallowed whole in the biohazard suit.  In one hand were a few slides and a swab.  He was holding a biohazard bag in the other.  He handed the slides and swab to Grissom and stepped back, pulling the door closed.

Grissom collected the sample and smeared it in a circular pattern on each slide.  Greg stood with the small biohazard bag held open and Grissom gently placed the slides in.  Greg sealed it and gave Grissom a thumbs up.

Now they would wait until they either got some sort of identification or until the CDC arrived with the equipment to deal with biological threats.  Fortunately, with the Air Force base nearby, equipment was more available than it would otherwise be.  

Grissom could stand his self-imposed isolation no longer.  Without conscious thought he found himself sitting on the floor in front of Sara, facing her.  He reached out and took one of her hands from the jumble of hands in her lap.  Her eyes snapped open and blinked a few times, working to focus on Grissom, his face distorted by the plastic visor in the hood.

The visor was starting to fog, now that the small tank of air was running out.  Grissom was sweating profusely in the suit, and rivulets ran down his face.  His breath felt hot inside the hood with no fresh air coming in to cool and dry the small space.

Sara looked at him and frowned.  "Are you running out of air?" she asked.

Grissom shrugged, though he knew the answer.

"You need to go now, Grissom.  They'll be get us out soon.  You don't have to stay," she assured him.  "We're all right. ... Really."

"I'm not leaving you," he said firmly.

Sara picked up the phone and had it dial the number from the last incoming call.  

"Sanders," Greg answered.

"Greggo!" Sara chirped.  "Come to rescue me?"

"I did, but I see Grissom beat me to it, as usual," he teased.  "Get a room already!"

"I so hope you are alone in that trailer!" she snarled.

"Of course, my sweet.  You're secret is safe with me," he laughed.

"I don't suppose one of you big, strong men has got an extra canister of air?  Grissom is sweating like a farm animal and will no doubt pass out soon if he doesn't get some air."

"Yeah, but if I give him the air, he won't come out.  How will I ever get my chance at you?" Greg teased, already approaching the door with the canister in hand.

"We will just have to slip away sometime when he's not looking," she chuckled.

"I will hold you to it.  Or hold it to you," he teased.  "Sara, tell him to open the door.  There's air right outside.  And, Sara, I've got the slides staining, and I hope to be able to tell you something really soon, okay?  I promise you that I'm doing the best I can," he said, voice breaking.

"Greg, I know that you are.  I appreciate it," she said certainly.  "Thanks for the air!"

She closed the phone and pointed to the door.  "Your air awaits you," she said.

Grissom pushed himself up heavily, feeling a little dizzy.  He felt like the suit was sticking to him everywhere, impeding his movements.  He opened the door and grabbed the canister greedily, unscrewing the used tank from the regulator and affixing the new one.  At once he could tell the difference.  The air in the suit began to feel cooler and smell sweeter.

"Thank you," he said to Sara.  

"Basic problem-solving.  You're the big-deal Ph.D. supervisor.  How come you didn't think to call and ask?" she ribbed him.

"Carbon dioxide poisoning," he stated in his defense.  "It dulled my otherwise razor sharp intellect."

"What's your excuse when you aren't in the suit?" she asked smiling, but Grissom could feel the undercurrent of seriousness.  "It's just like the problem with the air.  You act like something is paralyzingly difficult, when it's not."

"It must be nice to see everything with such clarity," he said tensely, though he tried to soften the impact of the words with a smile after he said it.

"It would be, if it wasn't so damned hard to get the picture across to you," she said.

"Okay, since you were clever enough and nice enough to get me more air, I will listen raptly while you tell me how to solve our personal problem," he said, sitting back down in front of her.

"First of all, you were not born an indentured servant to the Crime Lab.  You do have hours in each day that do not belong to your job.  Right?" she asked.

"In theory," he semi-agreed.

"In fact, Grissom.  Quit trying to be difficult," she snipped at him.

"Okay, please continue."

"What you do those hours is nobody's business but yours.  Does Cavallo or Mobley tell you what to eat when you get home?  What music to listen to?  What shampoo to buy?"

He shook his head 'no'.

"I thought not.  Then why do you think it's any of their concern who you eat with?  Or do anything else with, for that matter?"

"It could be construed as sexual harassment," he argued.

"_I_ asked _you_ out, nimrod!  Now, unless you are going to accuse me of sexually harassing you, I don't see the problem."

"You have been sexually harassing me for years, and I haven't reported you yet!" he laughed.

"The definition in our handbook says 'unwelcome advances'.  With the possible exception of my dinner invitation, were any of the other _alleged_ incidences of harassment 'unwelcome'?"

"Uncomfortable at times," he evaded.

"In what sense of the word?" she queried.

"Certainly not in the sense of 'unwelcome'," he admitted.

"I can assure you, if you made any 'advances' towards me, they would not be 'unwelcome'.  I think I've made that abundantly clear.  I'll sign a waiver, if you wish," she offered.

"Do they have a form for that in HR?" he asked, laughing.

"If not, will a sworn statement do?" she countered.

"Sara, I hear what you are saying, but it could still get really messy at work.  There would be gossip and people thinking one or the other of us is taking advantage of the other.  It would just start problems that we couldn't control."

"For someone who has managed to remain a complete enigma, despite working with everyone there for years, you don't have much confidence in your ability to keep a secret, do you?" she smirked.  "Or do you think that I would tell them?"

"Like you're an open book yourself," he conceded.

"They all suspected it when I first came here anyway.  I think you'd find that no one would be particularly surprised or upset," she confided in him.

"I will consider everything you've said," he promised.  "That's the best I can do right now."

"It could all be moot," she said darkly, her mood slipping back down.

'Tick, tock,' the little voice in his head said, torturing him.

The cell phone cried for attention again, and this time Sara answered.  "Greg, my sweet.  Any news?" she asked hopefully.  She listened for a moment, then repeated to Grissom, "_Yersinia pestis_."

"The plague," he translated for her, breathing a sigh of relief.

Forgetting Greg on the line, she asked, "Is that supposed to be a good thing?  I mean, it killed something like 20 million people in the Middle Ages."

"Maybe up to 37 million," he corrected.  

"Oh, that's better," she huffed.

"Sara, it's curable now.  The few people who die from it don't receive adequate treatment in time, or they have compromised immune systems."

Sara looked across at Hobbs, who was still not tuned in.  "What's the treatment?" she asked.

"They will put you in the hospital for a few days and give you streptomycin, if you aren't allergic to it.  If you are, there are several other antibiotics that are just as effective."

Sara remembered the phone and put it back up to her ear.  "Greg, are you sure?"

"There are several other tests that we will run at the lab to confirm it, Sara.  But the presumptive tests all point to the plague, which is not unheard of in this area."

"I could so kiss you right now!" she squealed into the phone.

"Well, maybe not right now," he demurred.  "How about in a couple of days?" he asked hopefully.

"Snooze, you lose!" she replied, hanging up the phone.

Sara leaned forward and wrapped her arms happily around Grissom's neck, and he returned the gesture, holding her around her waist.

The cell phone interrupted them again, annoying Sara to no end.  "Now who's calling?  I've never been this popular in my life!"  She flipped it open.  "Sidle."

"Hey, Sara.  It's Al Robbins.  I guess you heard the good news!"

"It's still hard to wrap my head around the fact that being told you've been exposed to the plague is good news!" she laughed.

"It's better than being told you've been exposed to hantavirus," he said.

"Yes, you have a point there," she agreed.

"We'll be bringing you guys biohazard suits to put on ... not to keep it out, but to keep it in," he laughed.  "Then you get an all-expense paid vacation for two or three days at the hospital of your choice.  You ready to get out of that house?"

"I was born ready!" she quipped.  "We only need two suits.  Grissom already has one on," she told Robbins.

"He still has to be quarantined like the rest of you, so he might as well take it off.  We'll give him a fresh one.  That one must be like a sauna by now."

"I'll tell him," she said.  "Thanks, Doc!" she said brightly, hanging up.

"What did he say?" Grissom asked.

"You can take the suit off.  You will still have to be quarantined like the rest of us.  They will bring us suits when they are ready to transport us."

"Thank God!" Grissom said, ripping the tape off the hood and yanking it from his head.  His hair was wet and pressed in curls against his scalp and his face was flushed from the heat.  He smiled as Sara began unwrapping his feet while he worked on his gloves.  Within a few seconds he was peeling the wet latex suit off, his clothes soaked with sweat underneath.

"You definitely need a shower!" she teased.

"I feel like I've already had one ... with my clothes on," he answered.

Sitting back down with her, he reached across and grabbed her hand again.  "That's much better," he claimed.  "I didn't like touching you but not being able to feel you."

"Same here," she agreed, his touch warming her, giving her a sense of peace, despite the circumstances.  

"It looks like we will be spending some quality time together the next few days," he said.  "Maybe you can teach me more about basic problem-solving."  

"I can teach it, but are you willing to learn?" she asked, cocking her head and smirking.

"I think you will find me to be a highly motivated pupil," he returned with a lopsided grin.  "I've got a problem that I absolutely _must_ solve before it's too late." 


End file.
